


Bonfire Night

by greenapricot



Series: Dreaming Spires Radio [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Nightvale AU, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: Squashes and gourds have begun to appear on doorsteps and street corners across our fair city. The mists have become thicker, coalescing around our beloved spires, their whisperings rising to the bewitching cacophony that heralds the turning of the seasons. Autumn is here!Rejoice in the orange and yellow glow of the newly-turned leaves while you still can, listeners, they won’t be with us for long.
Relationships: James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Series: Dreaming Spires Radio [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1356283
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	Bonfire Night

**Author's Note:**

> Dreaming Spires Radio part three, for spooky season (which as far as I’m concerned lasts for all of November). 
> 
> Many thanks to the FoH for various bits of inspiration and research. This is for all of you.

Squashes and gourds have begun to appear on doorsteps and street corners across our fair city. The mists have become thicker, coalescing around our beloved spires, their whisperings rising to the bewitching cacophony that heralds the turning of the seasons. Autumn is here!

Rejoice in the orange and yellow glow of the newly-turned leaves while you still can, listeners, they won’t be with us for long.

This is Dreaming Spires Radio and I am your host, James Hathaway.

Welcome to the city of Oxford.

[ theme music plays - Ventoux - Noverim Me ]

Bonfire Night is nearly upon us! That wonderful time of celebration and compulsory ritual burning. The capricious and eternal Mayor Dexter and The Oxford City Council would like to remind all citizens of Oxford to gather your flammables in advance and to make a plan for how you will keep your bonfire burning all through the night. Household members should organise themselves into shifts to ensure their bonfire is well-tended for each hour of the night and that the ritual chanting does not falter.

Citizens who live alone have special dispensation to join with another household providing they leave a token collection of flammables on their doorstep accompanied by a note with the address of the household they will be joining.

Recommended flammables include: objects left behind in your home by acquaintances that you once invited to a party only to regret their presence upon their arrival, the bones of departed pets, books recommended by friends which you’ve gotten partway through and always intended to pick up again but realised said books weren’t engaging enough to be worth your time, gifts from relatives who don’t know you nearly as well as they think they do, your neighbour’s garden furniture, that one chair that has always been much more uncomfortable than it looks, last year’s Hallowe’en costumes (but not this year’s), strange objects that appear in your bathtub and sink but you know no from whence they came, leaves collected from graveyards or churchyards, and of course, plenty of dry wood to keep it all going. 

Copies of the full Acceptable Flammables List are being posted at strategic locations as I speak. Rumour has it that the list is much longer than last year which should help with the rush on certain items. As always when notices are being posted, take care not to stand still in one place for too long as the sun is setting. The Information Distribution Corps is quick, overzealous, and not at all discerning about where they place their notices. If one is placed on you, you are obligated to stay within view of the public for three hours afterwards.

[beat]

Intern Gurdip has just handed me the traffic report.

A lingering group of costumed revellers from last week’s Hallowe’en Festivities is causing havoc with traffic around the area of Magdalen Bridge. Many of them are dressed as Middle-Earthers which has led to an increase in attacks by Narnians (not costumed Narnians, actual Narnians) who seem to be under the mistaken impression that it is the Middle-Earthers who are in breach of the Second-Breakfast Treaty this time. 

The resulting skirmishes have caused traffic backups on the High Street, Iffley Road, and the B480.

In addition, the usual increase in hooded figures lurking on street corners has resulted in visibility problems at some intersections. So take care, especially when making right turns.

[beat]

Listeners! I have some exciting news to share with you. It’s been almost a week since this most exciting event occurred, but of course, with the annual closing of the studio around Hallowe’en to prevent a repeat of The Incident That I Am Contractually Obligated to Never Again Mention by Name, there has been no opportunity.

As I may have mentioned, Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis and I have been spending a fair amount of time together over these past months. He has, to my absolute delight, joined me for my morning coffee and croissant semi-regularly. And when his schedule has allowed it, we have even met up for pints after work on multiple occasions. It has been a joy to introduce Robbie to more of Oxford’s selection of charming pubs. A joy that doesn’t even begin to come close to the joy of being in his presence. There have even been a couple of rare and glorious days during which I saw him both in the morning and in the evening.

But alas, various circumstances, and the increasing number of unsolved case files that continue to fly through the unexplained portal which appeared in the police station months ago, have conspired to keep us from going on a proper dinner date. Though not for lack of trying.

You might say to me, James, if someone continues to break off date after date for months on end, even on more than one occasion when both of you were standing in front of the restaurant about to go in, maybe that someone doesn’t actually want to go on a date with you. 

I admit to having fallen into this dispirited line of thinking myself, from time to time. You may think that I’ve been foolish to hold out hope, but that is only because you have not personally witnessed the regret on Robbie’s face, or heard the regret in his voice when he’s had to leave me to attend to Police Business or ring me to tell me he couldn’t make it.

He is always kind, unfailingly so, and very apologetic, especially on those occasions when the case in question turns out to be from some other Oxford—possibly the one that Julie visited—and therefore impossible for him to investigate now that the door in the depths of the Bodleian has disappeared. But Robbie is ever thorough in his pursuit of the cause of justice, he will give each case nothing less than his full attention until the crime is either solved or proved not to have happened in our Oxford. And if that means we have to wait for a proper date then it seems a worthy sacrifice. 

But! Oh, joy of joys! We must make that sacrifice no more! On the eve of Hallowe’en, as the costumed revellers were gathering on street corners and crowding onto buses to travel to the ritual sites in Wytham Wood, Robbie and I finally had our date. And what a date it was!

I suggested the restaurant since Robbie’s schedule hasn’t afforded him much opportunity to familiarise himself with the fine selection of eating establishments in our city. We met in front of the restaurant, as we have before to no avail, but Robbie informed me that he had sorted it so he was at the bottom of the rota and therefore would not be called away. 

He was wearing a suit that I hadn’t seen before, in a lovely dark, warm grey, paired with a maroon tie with a paisley design flecked with azure; a perfect complement to the sapphire blue shirt that set off his eyes in such a sublime way that it left me struck once again, as if I were seeing him for the first time. I said as much to him, that he looked lovely, and he, gracious and humble man that he is, passed it off as nothing and complimented me instead. 

We entered through the street level door and followed the path of flickering torchlight through labyrinthine stone corridors and steep narrow stairways down into the restaurant itself. The maitre d’ appeared as soon as we entered, gliding across the flagstone floor to lead us to our table in a secluded corner.

It was all rather romantic, the room lit by countless candles in niches carved into the damp stone walls, casting a warm flickering glow over us and our table. We sat down across the intimate round table from each other and the maitre d’ informed us that our server would be with us shortly to take our wine selection before vanishing into thin air over Robbie’s shoulder. I picked up a menu, trying to decide which of the many tantalising options I would choose when I felt a light touch on my wrist. 

When I looked up at Robbie, his brow was furrowed in concern. “James,” he said, in a low and worried tone. “Was that—” he gestured behind him to where the maitre d’ had disappeared. 

“The maitre d’?” I asked in confusion, worried that he was having second thoughts about our date.

“He was—” Robbie said, scooting his chair around the table closer to mine, his voice pitched low as if he was afraid of being overheard. “He’s very pale and he just appeared, then disappeared. And the way he moved—” Robbie glanced behind him as if he was worried the maitre d’ may be lurking there, then turned back to me. “I think he might be…” He moved closer still and whispered, “A vampire.” 

“Oh,” I said, letting out a small laugh of relief. “Yes, of course. How else could we get completely authentic eighteenth-century French cuisine?”

“You’re serious,” Robbie said, his face taking on a look of beguiling incredulity.

“I haven’t been here before myself,” I confessed. “But Julie and Gurdip assure me the food is outstanding.”

“Is that safe?” he asked.

“Of course,” I reassured him. “The food isn’t from the eighteenth century, the cooks are. Everything is local, organic, and sustainably raised.”

Robbie shook his head, scooting his chair closer still so that he was more sitting next to me than opposite me. “We’re in a—” He looked around at the room taking in the ceiling and walls carved directly from stone, the heavy velvet wall hangings and tapestries depicting ancient battles (some of which the waitstaff no doubt had been a part of), the copious candles, wax dripping from their niches and down the walls in strange abstract patterns, the torches that marked the exit back up to the street. “We’re in a dungeon,” he whispered. “With vampires.”

“Oh,” I said again, realisation dawning and with it relief. “We’re perfectly safe. They wouldn’t exactly be able to run a successful business if they drank the patrons. The reviews would be terrible.”

Robbie gave me an incredulous look and then shook his head, letting out a small chuckle. “Just when I think I’ve got the measure of this town.” He glanced around the dining area once again, seemingly reassured that there was indeed no one lurking in any of the corners. 

“Wine?” I asked, sensing that, though he looked much more relaxed than he had a minute ago, something to help calm his nerves further would likely not go amiss. 

“Please.” Robbie smiled one of his most charming and beautiful smiles, looking both relieved and reassured. 

Our server appeared and introduced herself as soon as I mentioned the bottle I had selected out loud (vampires’ uncanny sense of hearing makes for an exceptionally responsive waitstaff). Robbie looked a bit startled at her appearance, but by the time she returned with the bottle and then again when we were ready to order he seemed to be adjusting. 

I’m afraid I will have to stop there, for now, dear listeners. The chartreuse light that indicates when our ever enigmatic Chief Station Manager Innocent has become displeased is now at its most blindingly bright, blinking so rapidly it is almost steady, so I’d better get on with some more mundane news.

[beat]

A reminder from the Ghost and Ghoul Support Network: During these days when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest, the ghosts that live in your home will become more active. Cold spots, whooshing sounds, and lights flickering are nothing to be alarmed about.

If ghost activity becomes too disruptive to your daily life, the GaGSN recommends that you leave small non-precious objects near the edges of tables or counters. Ghosts delight in trying to push small objects off of things and will work at this for hours, giving you a bit of much-needed peace. But! Be sure all precious objects are locked in a safe place. Ghosts have difficulty discerning which things the living hold dear and which things they consider expendable.

The GaGSN has also produced an informational pamphlet detailing the differences between ghost-related electrical disturbances and problems caused by Electric Seeking Slugs. As the seasons change and The Damp increases, there has been an uptick in unnecessary ghost banishment, cruelly displacing ghosts from their ancestral haunting grounds due to falsely attributing certain kinds of electrical faults to ghosts.

Ghosts activity generally results in flickering lights, sometimes accompanied by buzzing sounds, not disruption to the flow of electricity itself. Electric Seeking Slugs, on the other hand, are the number one cause of electrical faults during times of increased Damp as they crawl up behind socket faceplates seeking the electricity they need to fuel themselves through the Dark Times. 

Familiarize yourself with the difference between ghost and slug disturbances before you take action, and let our city’s ghosts haunt in peace. Pamphlets are available at most Post Offices and Garden Centers.

[beat]

_The stain that won’t come out even when you remove the stained object from your home._

_That one spot on the corner of the third step from the top that always seems to blink in and out of this plane of existence._

_The smell that lingers and follows you wherever you go._

_Be troubled no more! Dr Beckmann has a specialised cleaner for every household need. Dr Beckmann, using undisclosed ingredients to remove unknownable things since 1934._

[beat]

Intern Julie has just handed me a bulletin from the Oxford City Council Department of Time and Time Loops. There have been reports of more than the usual grumblings about the turning back of the clocks this year and The Council would like to remind all of you listening out there that though the time change can be jarring for some, it is a Tradition and Tradition cannot be changed.

Do what you must to make peace with the Darkness but I implore you, listeners, do not let the Council hear you expressing your displeasure. We don’t want a repeat of the infamous Blighted Autumn. 

[in an undertone] If you are unaware of the Blighted Autumn consider yourself lucky. Very lucky.

[beat]

The chartreuse light has returned to its usual slow, dim, heartbeat-like pulsing, which means it is now safe to tell you about the rest of our date.

We chose the five-course meal for two, a delectable array of expertly prepared dishes spanning the breadth of eighteen-century French cuisine, with a wine pairing for each course. Each dish was as delicious as it was elegantly presented. Our conversion flowed from one topic to the next more seamlessly even than over our shared coffees and pints, Robbie’s beguiling accent no less beguiling after hours of listening to him. It was as if we were always meant to sit together just so, savouring our meals as we savoured each other’s company. 

As the evening drew on, we found ourselves sitting closer and closer together. Robbie hadn’t moved his chair back to the opposite side of the table after he raised his concerns about our hosts. At first, I assumed this was so he could keep an eye on the room and the waitstaff, but when he returned from the restroom and retook his seat, he slid his chair still closer to mine, even though doing so did not improve his view. By the time our dessert arrived, accompanied by a delightful digestif, we were sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder.

I found myself mesmerised by the look of utter delight on Robbie’s face as he dipped his spoon into the chocolate mousse and then brought it to his lips. His eyes drifted closed and he made a little humming noise in the back of his throat as if he’d never tasted anything so delicious. When he opened his eyes, I’m afraid I was staring. I was a bit embarrassed to be caught at it, but I challenge anyone to resist gazing upon such a display of captivating beauty when it’s sitting right next to you. 

“James,” he said, holding my gaze with those astonishing blue eyes of his. “You have to try this.” Before I could pick up my own spoon, he scooped up a generous helping of mousse and held it out to me. 

And I, completely beguiled by his charms, leaned across the scant inches between us and closed my lips over the spoon where his lips had been a moment before. I couldn’t stifle my own hum of pleasure as the flavours burst over my tongue, luscious dark chocolate and the perfect mix of sweet and tangy orange and cinnamon as the mousse melted on my tongue. My eyes fell closed as I revelled in the exquisite combination of flavours and sumptuous creaminess. When I opened them again Robbie was watching me, like I, James Hathaway, was somehow something extraordinary. 

“Good?” Robbie asked. 

“Very,” I said, unable to find even one more word to describe the ecstatic joy I was feeling. 

Robbie smiled at me, looking a bit pleased with himself, I think, for leaving me at a loss for words. I smiled back. 

The entire evening, I admit, had felt a bit like a dream—the most wonderful dream—and the intimate position we found ourselves in, sitting so close and sharing a dessert, only made it feel more so. As we lingered over the mousse, every bite as amazing as the first, I realised that we were the only two patrons left in the restaurant. So captivating was Robbie’s company that I hadn’t even noticed the comings and goings around us. 

It was late, and the waitstaff had begun to hover near the door to the kitchen watching us, no doubt eager for us to leave so they could get on with whatever other business vampires have to attend to in the darkest parts of the night. But even with their now somewhat menacing presence, I still did not want the evening to end. Robbie, it seemed, was of the same mind, but alas, all good things, at some point, must come to an end. 

Robbie insisted on paying for the entire meal, even though I was the one who chose the restaurant, saying that it was the least he could do after having to cancel on me so many times before. We reluctantly left the comfort of our corner table and wound our way back up through the labyrinthine stone corridors and into the chilly Oxford night. When we stopped on the pavement as the mists eddied around us—neither of us quite wanting to turn in opposite directions, as we must, to head to our own homes—I felt sure it really must have been a dream. How could so a perfect evening possibly exist? And yet, it was to become even more perfect.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Robbie said. He was standing quite close in the misty chill but looking away from me. I could just make out a look of mild apprehension on his lovely face. Feeling emboldened by the way the evening had gone so far, I reached out to gently brush my fingers across the back of his hand in reassurance. He smiled and looked up at me. 

“You helped me with my wreath in the spring,” he said. I nodded, a bit confused about what he was getting at. “I didn’t realise it then, but Laura Hobson tells me that asking someone to help you make a wreath means you…” he gestured between us, looking faintly embarrassed. “Not that I don’t— But she told me about the traditions of the changing of the seasons. I didn’t quite follow it all but the thing is…” He looked away again for a moment, watching the mists swirl around us, before meeting my gaze. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, of course, and if you’d rather not I understand, but… Would you join me for Bonfire Night?” 

“Oh,” I said, all aflutter and scarcely able to believe my ears. “Yes. Yes! I’d like that. Very much. Especially if it… means something.”

Robbie let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said, an almost shy smile on his lips. “I could use the help with the Latin pronunciation for the chants.”

“Of course,” I said. “Any time. Really.”

And then his smile— Oh, what a smile! Have you ever seen a smile that could light up the darkest hours of a mist-shrouded Autumn night? I am here to tell you that you haven’t lived until you have, dear listeners. You haven’t lived. I hadn’t lived until that very moment.

There we were, standing on the pavement just smiling at each other as the mists wailed around us, and I did something I have been thinking about since that fine spring day when Robbie walked up to me outside my favourite cafe and informed me that the colour of the sky was wrong. I took a step closer, and I kissed him. 

It was a rather chaste kiss, we were in public after all, and it was late enough that the _columba livia_ were beginning to pitch their battles in earnest—not the time to be lingering on pavements—but he moved closer as our lips met, clasping his hand over the nape of my neck, lengthening the kiss for one glorious moment before a particularly strident avian squawk startled us apart. 

“We should probably get indoors,” I said, filled with an effusive joy that even the thought of being parted from Robbie could not dampen. 

“Aye,” Robbie said, his hand sliding from my neck to my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. He shot an apprehensive glance in the direction of the ever more raucous squawking. “I’ll see you on Bonfire Night.”

“Yes,” I said, yet again left at a loss for words by this remarkable man. 

“Goodnight, James,” he said, gracing me with another of his gorgeous smiles.

“Goodnight, Robbie,” I replied, still at a loss for words.

He stepped away, turning toward his home and I toward mine. When I looked back as I rounded the corner, I could just see through the mists that he had also turned to look back at me. 

And now, the weather.

[ Ventoux - Spurious Glamour ]

We have come to that point in our programme where it is time for me to read the list of words submitted by our sometimes benevolent and hopefully satiated financial overlords, the Friends of Hathaway.

_Aluminium._

_Persnickety._

_Nefarious purpose._

_Prurient._

_Lufthansa._

_Unfortunate secrets._

_Vulgar appellation._

_Disabuse._

_Solipsistic impulse._

And, as always—

_Sexually._

[beat]

Well, dear listeners, it seems that in my excitement to relate our date to you all, I have gone over time. The chartreuse light is now blinking a rather threatening magenta.

We all, I am sure, have some preparations to which we must attend; flammables to collect, chants to practice, important decisions to make about what to wear when spending Bonfire Night with the kindest and most intriguing man in Oxford. 

Yes, listeners, though the days may grow ever darker, don’t lose hope. There are bright spots within the darkness. Cling to them, whatever they may be for you, however small, revel in that comfort, and those bright spots will get you through.

[theme song plays]

Station Manager Maddox here. The music this week, as it is every week, is brought to you by James’ band Ventoux. The theme is Noverim Me and the Weather was Spurious Glamour both from their album Existential Giraffe. The album, as well as Dreaming Spires and James Hathaway merchandise, is available on our website www.dreamingspiresradio.uk. You can also download our show in podcast form.

Dreaming Spires Radio is paid for and funded by listeners like you. If you like what you hear, please consider donating!

Really. Please donate. Though the volume of non-FoH donations has increased in recent months all of us at Dreaming Spires Radio, and James Hathaway especially, are still very much at their mercy. 

Tweet at us @dreamingspiresradio to tell us what you think! Thank you.

_____


End file.
